by Nancy Thayer
“How wonderful!” she whooped. “I told you that under the beautiful surface of this town there lies a hotbed of depravity and vice!”
“But you know,” I said, “Mother … it makes me feel a little sad, and I’m not sure why. The thought of those old women leching after that young man. Mrs. Moyer, Mrs. Halstead—they have children. Mrs. Moyer and Mrs. Bennett have children almost as old as that stripper. Seeing them look at that guy that way makes me feel sick. And sad.”
Mother stopped laughing then, and just looked at me for a minute. She smiled, but her eyes were serious. “Loss of innocence,” she said. Then she did something she hadn’t done for a long time. She reached out and pulled me up against her, and as she talked she held me as if I were still a child, and stroked my arm.
“You’re so young,” she began, and I said my usual “Oh, Mother.” But she went on. “I mean you’re young enough to still believe the best of people, and seeing below the surface makes you sad. Innocence is bliss, and all that. But, Mandy, those women aren’t bad or even pathetic because they liked watching that male stripper. Women in their forties are just as much sexual creatures as young women, maybe even more so. And thank heavens for it. We older women have the same desires—just not the same opportunities. Desire, my darling, goes on and on, even when youth fades. You’ll learn all this in your own good time, but for now, don’t judge older women, those women, too harshly. You’re young and lovely, everything is on your side—so be kind. Let us old women have a turn at enjoying the sight of young men’s bodies.”
As Mother spoke, she kept her arm wrapped about me, and held my arm in hers, and in her absentminded, almost oblivious way, she traced circles on my inner wrist with her thumb. It was a sweet caress, and now as I sit here in this church, I am aware of Mother, sitting only inches from me, her hands folded quietly in her lap. It is unusual, that quietness, for her hands are seldom still, always working on her pottery.
Over the years I have watched her hands shape a multitude of vases, bowls, cups, and figures on her pottery wheel, so that when I think of Mother, I first envision her articulate hands. When I was little, and sat with her through concerts or speeches or church services on days when there was no Sunday school, I used to play little games with her hands. I would slide her rings off and try them on all her fingers; I would open and close her fingers in contrived patterns. Little nonsense games, just keeping in touch with my mother. Now I am too old to do such things. I’m nineteen, and I wouldn’t dare sit playing with my mother’s hands in church. Still, I sometimes think I would like to hold her hand again.
It seems to me that there is nothing like the flesh for telling. The skin’s silent eloquence is more powerful than a million spoken words. I think of the few boys with whom I have in various ways made love—and especially I think of Michael. We are often so clumsy. I’m eager to grow older, for surely as I do I will learn more grace and control in touching. Now Mother reaches in her purse for the envelope which contains the church offering; her arm grazes mine, and I feel the familiar comfort of it. I sit firm, I don’t tighten up. She is my mother and her flesh is familiar. I remember in an instant the back rubs she gave me when I was sick, the times she knelt to draw me to her to console me when I was sad, the brisk competent gestures with which she fixed my dress or brushed my hair when I was small. We seldom touch that way anymore; we seldom touch at all now. I’d be embarrassed to take her arm in public. But I’m eager for new and different embraces from others, to take the place of those I’m leaving. I’m yearning for Michael’s touch above all. And I’m longing to continue my work with clay, to see if I can, with my own hands, mold that clay into some kind of celebration of all the touching I have known.
I want to be a sculptor. I’m going to be a sculptor.
I’m afraid to tell my parents of my decision. They’ll be alarmed. Since their divorce, my parents have not trusted each other. Daddy will think Mother has exerted some kind of influence over me, making me want to become a sculptor because she’s a potter. Mother will just be furious—because the influence she’s wanted to exert over me hasn’t worked. She has never wanted me to live an “artistic” life, because her own life has been so hard. She will think I’m dooming myself to a lifetime of poverty, solitude, and eccentricity as a potter, and she’s always yearned for me to be normal. She wants me to have a career as a teacher or a file clerk, something easily set aside while I have children so that I can hold a marriage together. She doesn’t want me to be overwhelmed and driven by my work. But I have to be a sculptor; I can’t help it. I look about this church and feel drawn by the beauty of all these human bodies. There is such adroitness in the ways arms and legs angle, bend, and flex. There is such a fine reciprocity between muscles and skin. When I talk to people, I am usually tongue-tied, or bored, or embarrassed by the banalities we exchange, but if I could learn to shape clay skillfully enough, I could show them how beautiful they are, and how I love them in my own way.
I know I have a talent for sculpting, too. My art teacher at college has told me so, and I can’t think why he would lie. It’s going to be rough at the end of the semester when Mother sees my grades and realizes that I dropped anthropology and took sculpting instead, in addition to my other art courses. But I don’t even care if I get a degree, I just want the art courses. If only I can make Mother understand.
Earlier in this service, I watched Priscilla and Seth Blair leaning up against their mother, and I envied them their innocence and dependence. Mrs. Blair and her children incline toward one another in all their movements, with the natural interdependence of a family. They seem to have nothing to hide from one another. But that will change as they grow older; it always does. Still, I envied them this morning, and wished for that childhood relationship with my mother, that comfortable trust. I wish I could tell my mother I’m going to be a sculptor—if I had when I was little, she would have laughed and bought me a set of modeling clay. But in the past few years she has often said to me when I brought home good grades from art class that she’d rather I got pregnant at sixteen by a sailor than become an artist. Why does she say such things to me? Why does she think she knows what’s best for me? She might have had a tough life, but we are two different people. She’s willing to tutor and encourage other kids who want to learn how to pot or sculpt—why can’t she encourage me? It’s the damned words, I think. Mrs. Blair protects her children’s bodies with her own, but as they grow, the tactile safeguards will disappear, and she’ll protect and direct them with words. And it will all get screwed up. I love my mother and I know she loves me, but touching is so simple and true, and words are so complicated and often misunderstood. When Mother and I talk for any length of time about my future, about my art, we invariably end up disagreeing.
I want her to give me her blessing; I want her to let me be a sculptor. I need her. She was so wonderful this weekend when I came home all in tears.
At college I was determined to forget Michael, to date older, more sophisticated boys, to have lots of fun. And in six weeks I had three relationships—none of them glorious.
The first boy I dated and slept with was a smooth-talking senior. I was impressed that he paid attention to me, a freshman, but it was stupid of me to be so thrilled, because his only interest in me was as a fresh body. Screwing was, for him, like putting another notch on a belt. I found out too late that he was trying to set some kind of record before he graduated. I was more relieved than hurt when I discovered all this, because it explained why having sex with him was so much like taking my driver’s test had been: a quick run-through with an impatient partner.
The second boy I met in my freshman comp class. He was cute and clever and witty, and I thought we might become a couple for a while, because we enjoyed each other so much. We dated for a month, and got along well, laughed together, had fun. But he seemed alarmed instead of pleased when I said I would sleep with him—he asked, so why did he seem amazed and upset when I said yes? We went to his room just one
time, for he lost his sense of humor and wit. He fumbled and bumbled and practically came in his pants and neither one of us had much fun. After that one night he avoided me. Now he even sits on the other side of class. I can’t get him to talk to me. I’m beginning to see that sex is a complicated matter, and I’m even more grateful for the ease I had with Michael.
The third boy I slept with at college is the reason I came home. At least he’s one of the reasons I drove home this weekend. Or perhaps it’s Paula Barry’s fault as much as Chad Bawden’s. Well, of course, part of the fault is mine.
Paula is going to be an art major; we have a lot in common, live in the same dorm. We have—had—an instant friendship, learned to confide in each other, to turn to each other when we wanted to celebrate or talk. So she knew about all the boys I dated, and she knew about the crush I had on Chad Bawden.
Chad’s a junior, a history major, and a basketball star. And he’s nice. He’s one of those rare men who can handle being handsome, popular, and a good jock without getting snobbish. He’s easy to be quiet with, and that quality reminded me of Michael. I smiled at him until he asked me if I wanted to join him for a Coke, and I flirted with him over the Coke until he asked me to go to the movies. Part of the delight of it all was talking with Paula about it later. “Can you imagine!” I would say to Paula, smug with accomplishment. “I saw Chad, and I wanted to get him to date me, and I did it!” It was such fun listing each of Chad’s enviable qualities to Paula: His wealthy parents, admirable background, good grades, athletic honors, his easy kindness, his easy laughter. Chad was right for me. He was the person I should have fallen in love with and I wanted very much to fall in love with him. On our fourth date, we slept together in his apartment off-campus. We actually slept there, after making love, and woke up with each other in the morning. He brought me coffee in a cracked mug and told me I looked beautiful there in his messy bed, and I burst into tears which I could not explain to him or to myself. Why did I feel so bad when I had gotten what I wanted? Why did I wish that instead of being with this nice, acceptable man, I wanted to be with taciturn, difficult Michael—Michael, a kid! I drank my coffee and reached my arms out to Chad, determined to love this lovable man.
I’ll never know if it would have worked. For two weeks, we spent most of our time together. But Thursday my art teacher told me after class he wanted me to come back at four to discuss my project with him, and of course I agreed; I was excited by his special attention. I had told Chad I’d meet him at the deli at four, and I had no way to call him, so I asked Paula to go to the deli to tell him I’d be late. I had a great meeting with my art professor, who thinks I might be able to do something really fine, and I practically flew to the deli afterward. What a brilliant fall day it was—crisp, clear, sunny—one of those days when I felt the world has been created just to make a place for me to be alive in.
When I got to the deli, no one I knew was there. I went back to the dorm, and Chad wasn’t there. Neither was Paula. I waited around, feeling more and more whiny, and dinnertime came and I didn’t hear from Chad, and night came and Paula didn’t return to the dorm. I could hardly sleep that night, I was so suspicious—and my suspicions were correct. The next day Paula came into my room, glowing and pathetic with guilt. She told me she was in love with Chad and he was in love with her.
“I don’t know how it happened,” she said. “I told him you’d be late, so we sat down to drink a Coke while he waited—and things just happened.”
I suppose if I’d really been in love with him I would have been too hurt to confront him, but as it was, I was more angry than anything else. So when I passed him in the hall that afternoon, I stopped him.
“Hey,” I said, “what happened?”
“What do you mean?” he asked, looking embarrassed.
“I mean, why didn’t you wait for me?”
Chad looked truly puzzled. “Paula said you weren’t coming,” he said. “She said you had a date with someone else, someone important. She said—I thought—she said that now that you were seeing this other guy, I shouldn’t count on seeing you anymore. You sent her to—let me down easy.”
What could I have done? Yelled, “Paula is a liar”? I was so hurt and angry that I could only turn and walk away.
Later, as I was walking to my dorm, I saw Paula come out, and she couldn’t stop smiling. Chad was on the steps waiting for her; he bent to give her a quick kiss, then they walked off, holding hands.
I skipped my last class, threw my stuff into the car, and drove the hour’s drive home as fast as I could. Everything else faded in importance before this event, this double betrayal, and I couldn’t decide which was worse: Chad’s dropping me so easily for Paula, or Paula’s betraying me by lying to get him.
And at the very back of my mind, tempting as a fragrance, was the knowledge of Michael. Home was where Mother was, but home was also where Michael was.
Thank God Mother was home when I arrived. It was five o’clock when I burst unexpected into the house. Mother was sitting in her jeans and sweater in the living room, reading the newspaper. She took one look at me and rose up from the sofa, letting the paper scatter.
“Why, darling,” she said, “what’s wrong?”
That little overture of sympathy was all it took for me to burst into tears, and I raced to the sofa and collapsed in her arms. I told her all about Chad and me and Paula.
“I don’t want to go back to college,” I said. “I can’t stand the thought of living in that place. Every day I’d have to see Paula and Chad mooning around with each other. Every day I’d be reminded of—of everything. She lied. How could she do that when she knew how I felt about him? How could he do that when we’d been so close? Oh, I hate them both. Mom, I really don’t want to go back there. I want to stay here or switch colleges.”
“Mmm,” Mother said. “I see. Do you think you’ll find a college where this sort of thing won’t happen, where everyone is perfect?”
By then I was lying on the sofa with my head in Mother’s lap, and she was smoothing my hair with her hand. I was calming down, feeling safe, there on our old comfortable sofa, staring at the pine coffee table whose grain and knicks were as familiar to me as the creases of my hand.
“You’ve been betrayed before, you know,” Mother said.
“Nothing like this,” I replied.
“At the time it seemed even more important,” Mother said. “Remember when you were in the first grade? Cindy Patten was your best friend. You girls were inseparable. You and Cindy went to the drugstore. Cindy stole some lipsticks, then told her mother that you had taken them and put them in her coat pocket without her knowledge. She swore you took them. You swore you didn’t. It was hard knowing whom to believe—”
“Well, Mother!” I said, halfway sitting up with indignation. “I didn’t take them. She did. I saw her!”
“I know. I know. I believe you, for heaven’s sake. But think about it—you were so mad at Cindy you didn’t speak to her for a whole week. Then little by little the two of you drifted together again. And that’s just one incident I can remember. That sort of thing happens all the time, everywhere.”
“Then it’s a rotten world.”
“Sometimes. Sometimes it’s pretty good. Be careful in your judgments—he who is without sin casts the first stone—”
“Mother! I’ve never done anything like this!”
“Oh, nonsense. Of course you have. We all have. Remember the time you and Diane Maloney went to the library? You were in the sixth grade then, and you were best friends. The library had just gotten in a huge new book on fashion, hairdos, finding your own style, beauty hints, all that stuff, geared to young teenagers. Diane found it first. She called you over, all excited. ‘Look what I found! This is the only thing I’m going to check out today. I’m going to take it home and read every page.’ And you looked so superior; you said, ‘I can’t believe you’re really interested in that. How embarrassing. Well, if you’re going to carry it around, y
ou can walk home by yourself. I don’t want to be seen with you.’ You psyched her into putting it back on the shelf, and when she did, you grabbed it, said, ‘Ha-ha, now I get to read it first!’ ”
Mother and I both began to laugh. “That was a terrible thing to do, wasn’t it?” I said. “I’d forgotten about that. But I was so scared about going into seventh grade; I wanted so desperately to look gorgeous and sophisticated—”
“And Diane didn’t?”
“Well, Mother, we ended up sharing the book, after all. She came over and we looked at it together!”
“That’s true, but don’t miss the point. You did do a sleazy thing to get what you wanted. Maybe Paula wanted Chad more desperately than you did. Maybe they really fell in love. Anyway, you can’t stop going to that college because of that. If everyone ran away because of one or two betrayals—well, civilization wouldn’t function at all.” Mother was quiet for a time, stroking my hair. Then she said, “I think you should go to church on Sunday.”
So here I am. Sitting here, I feel safe, at home, yet I can’t help seeing things from a new perspective. I guess I’m growing up, getting jaded. Everyone in this church must at one time or another have betrayed someone. Everyone must have lied or cheated.
Several of the married men in this church have tried to have affairs with Mother. I can remember her refusing gracefully on the telephone, at the swimming pool, embarrassed because I was listening. I remember, when I was about fourteen, how Mother cried for weeks because Jake Vanderson had been calling her. His wife was off in Bermuda at a women’s golf meet. Mr. Vanderson took Mother out to dinner at a restaurant way down in Southmark so that no one would see them. Mother came home that evening and started crying so hard she could scarcely make it up the stairs. I was terrified. She had never been this way before. I kept asking her what was wrong, and she finally told me.
“I want to have an affair with Jake,” she said. “He’s handsome, intelligent, witty, sexy. Oh, God, I’m so attracted to him. And Lillian is such a drip. All she cares about is spending money. She has no compassion, no charity. I don’t owe her a thing. But I made a promise to myself when your father and I were divorced that I would never have an affair with a married man. And I won’t, I swear I won’t. But oh, Mandy, how I would like to spend just one night in his arms. He’s so tall—”
